Black King White Knight
by YourFavoriteCONTRACTOR
Summary: John Watson in settling back in life being married to an assassin, dealing with Sherlock's antics, and trying to get to work on time. Of course the detective doesn't make it easy as he drags John into a world that should only exist in nightmares. Now John has to contend with Vampires and the sudden realization that his best friend might not be quite human. Post- HLV Vamplock


In the months following Sherlock blowing Magnusson's head off Sherlock had seemed different somehow. Not while John was looking of course, he still solved cases with John, and went gallivanting after criminals, left specimens in the fridge, once an entire arm in the fridge, yelling at people who weren't talking to shut up, laying motionless on the couch for long periods of time, torturing his violin, playing it sometimes, dark low tones dragged out of the instrument like a funeral march, hardly eating… and yet… he was different. Even John could tell. At first he thought that Sherlock was just getting over the shock of killing a person, but then again, Sherlock had thrown a man out the window without so much as the bat of an eyelid. Yet this was different, this time Sherlock had actively killed a man in cold blood.

Sherlock it seemed had hardly eaten since; John and Misses Hudson had forced small amounts of food upon the younger Holmes. John, who had decided to move back in with Sherlock briefly, though he still made regular visits to Mary, noticed that Sherlock never seemed to sleep, and when he did it was unsettling sleep that eventually led to the detective stepping out at night.

Sherlock had lost weight, his cheekbones, normally angular, now stood gaunt on his face, eyes darkened and lowered. He smiled still when John was in the room, but when John was absent or Sherlock thought he wasn't looking, his gaze seemed miles away and his scowl permanent.

Weeks in Mycroft visited his younger brother, ungraciously kicking John out of the flat. John looked to Sherlock for some sort of argument or approval of his stay, but the detective waved him off with a lazy hand. John hovered at the door listening to Mycroft.

"You've grown weak brother mine, lazy, sloppy, perhaps it's time." Mycroft started cheekily but his voice soon grew dark and worried.

"I'll be fine Mycroft... I just need… a little more time." Sherlock had responded, before breezing past Mycroft to deduce something in his microscope, "John you can stop hovering by the door, there is hardly any interesting conversation to overhear." Sherlock had called dismissively to John. John wondered briefly how the detective knew he was there, but this was Sherlock Holmes; it was probably some faint shadow, or the smell of his deodorant that had tipped off the detective. John sighed figuring that there was no use sticking around, but paused long enough to hear Mycroft say.

"You should tell John."

The change in Sherlock Holmes seemed to be deteriorating him from the inside out. John often came home to find the detective had collapsed halfway to the bedroom or to the kitchen John insisted that they get him to a hospital, but Sherlock had begged him not to in a way that had seemed so genuine, with eyes so human that John had agreed not to call an ambulance.

Often while looking at the thin detective as he went about his work, weary, and distracted, John wondered why he didn't just haul the detective straight to the ER. But Sherlock would smile and rattle off a long list of deductions ask John if he wanted dinner, and John would tell himself that Sherlock was fine. Yet he noticed that Sherlock would never eat.

One day a bandage appeared on Sherlock's left wrist, giving John pause. His eyes glued to the bandage expecting the worst as Sherlock lay sleeping with left arm thrown off the couch, and his right on his chest, a book over his face called "Knitting for Dummies" and his phone across his stomach. John inhaled sharply taking Sherlock's bandaged wrist in one hand already being victim to Sherlock's first, though fake, suicide attempt.

Sherlock jolted out of his sleep pulling the hand from John to take the book off his face and blinking into the low light cast by the setting sun in the flat.

"John?" Sherlock frowned blinking at the older man in the room. The color had come back to the detective; he didn't look like the walking dead anymore. John sighed in relief, letting go of a breath he had seemed to be holding for the past two months.

"What did you do this time?" John asked gesturing to the wrist. Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

"What?" He glanced down at the bandaged wrist, "Oh, that, stupid really, managed to stab myself with a probe in the morgue the other day, luckily, it hadn't been used in the dead man yet." Sherlock gave a chuckled, "Why what did…" Sherlock surveyed John quickly, "ah… yes… I am not given to suicidal tendencies John, I am much to fond of myself for that." Sherlock joked. John found himself laughing.

"Well, I know that much is true." John agreed making his way into the kitchen, "Tea?" he asked the detective.

"Earl grey if you'd please. And some biscuits if we have any that aren't contaminated." Sherlock said scooping up his violin, it seemed whatever illness Sherlock had acquired had passed. John wanted to believe that was the end of it, but as fate would have it, there was much more to come.

It just so happened that John had run into Molly while shopping for new food, and milk. He casually mentioned Sherlock stabbing himself and joked about how that must have been a sight.

"Sorry?" Molly had asked confused, when John told her the story of Sherlock accidentally stabbing himself in the morgue it became apparent that she knew nothing of this. John was about to write it off as her not being there when she laughed and said she had almost forgotten about it bidding John farewell before making a hasty retreat to the vegetables aisles.

John returned home confused with the shopping to find Sherlock supine on the couch fingers pressed together under his chin.

"I brought some more food, in case you decide to be human and eat something." John joked as he put things away. He turned to see Sherlock in the kitchen doorway eyes studying John intently.

"Jesus Sherlock, don't do that!" John said after having a start.

"Judging from the knife in your hand, it would end badly if I did so again, I'll do my best not to pop up out of nowhere." Sherlock joked. John looked at the knife in his hand that he hadn't realized he'd picked up.

"Something you wanted?" John asked setting the knife down and throwing some milk into the fridge, that was thankfully, specimen free. Sherlock gave John a once over before shaking his head.

"Nothing important, I'll leave you to your date with Mary, It's just busy work anyway." Sherlock retreated to his chair, sending a quick text to god knows where before furiously typing away on his computer.

The month of February John moved permanently back in with Mary, neither of them talked about the time John spent away, both knowing very well that John needed to sort out his head. Living half the time with Mary the other half with Sherlock John was quite glad for the day-to-day troubles of domestic bliss. And John saw less and less of Sherlock. The detective had stopped answering his phone and appeared to have locked himself up in 221 B, it was because of this that John received a phone call from Lestrade and eventually found himself upon the doorstep of the infamous flat, unknowingly at the precipice of Sherlock's most well guarded secret.

**(Line Break)**

John knocked on the door to Sherlock's room, Sherlock himself was laying across the width of the bed head hanging off one end and hands in his classic "thinking position" eyes closed.

"Sherlock… Lestrade called, he says he needs you." John said. The detective didn't move, not that John had expected him to, but he gave an exasperated sigh nonetheless.

"What's the case?" Sherlock said suddenly blue eyes popping open to stare at john.

"Er… he didn't say, he said he didn't want to discuss it over the phone." John said. Sherlock flipped his body upright swinging his long gangly legs to the floor and standing swiftly. John raised an eyebrow at the detective's antics and went to leave the room.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock frowned at John who was leaving even though he had just arrived.

"I'm making dinner for Mary remember?" John said with a pointed look toward Sherlock.

"Hmmm… No." Sherlock said simply pulling on shoes and exiting the room, brushing past John quickly who rolled his eyes at the childish man.

"Of course you don't." Oh… also Lestrade said to say… what was it…" John struggled, "Kensington I think."

Sherlock paused.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock said.

"Pretty sure." John said giving Sherlock a strange look, Sherlock pulled back looking down at John as if analyzing him.

"What does it mean Sherlock?" John asked as Sherlock deduced him.

"Hmm… nothing… must go." Sherlock dodged grabbing both his jacket and scarf and jogging down the stairs, putting them on hastily as he went. John frowned and followed him down, only to have Sherlock slide into a taxi and drive away just as John reached the door. He scoffed throwing his hands up as if to shrug before turning around and slamming the door.

Turning back to the street John hailed a cab of his own sliding into the back.

"New Scotland Yard." John instructed. The cabbie pulled away from the curb taking John to his destination, but not at the pace he would have liked.

"Could you… maybe go faster?" John asked from the back.

"I'm already going as fast as I can! Is there a plane waiting for you at the Yard mate?" His cabbie asked irritated.

"Just… please get there quickly." John said ignoring the cabbie and looking out the window.

The cabbie pulled up and John quickly paid the fare before hopping out and making his way up to the building. As he entered the Yard making his way to Lestrade's office he noticed an irate Sergeant Donovan coming down the stairs in the building with a look that told John she'd just had a run in with Sherlock.

"Freak is upstairs, he's had the room cleared so good luck." Sally spat a John as he made his way upstairs. John frowned wondering what was with all the secrecy surrounding Sherlock and his seemingly endless quirks.

John approached the offices opening the doors slowly and slipping behind one of the desks. Sherlock and Lestrade were in Greg's office arguing with each other about something, not loud enough to exit the walls of the glass office, but the whispered shouts of a secret debate. John couldn't quite make out what they were saying, so he lingered at the desk attempting to read lips, every now and then catching a word such as "dead", "need you", "monstrous", and "now Sherlock!" John continued watching Sherlock in the glass office making wild hand gestures at Lestrade. Lestrade for his part was just as animate, yelling at Sherlock, at one point poking him in the chest angrily and hissing what seemed like an order.

"You need to tell John." Is what John made out on Lestrade's lips. He couldn't see what Sherlock replied back, Sherlock had leaned in close and whispered something lips barely moving as his eyes swept out of the office and lingered on John before holding up a hand to stop Lestrade who was about to say something back to Sherlock before he too looked out and saw John. Sherlock attempted to breeze past Lestrade but he grabbed the detective by the arm and held tight, Sherlock glared at the offending hand before turning his blue eyes up at Lestrade. There were mumbled words exchanged before Sherlock rolled his eyes pulling his arm out of Lestrade's grasp and exited the office walking briskly up to John.

"I thought you had dinner." Sherlock near growled as he came level with John.

"Yeah, in another half hour, thought you might have needed help." John said. Sherlock glanced at John curiously before turning his gaze back to the doors in front of him. Just as he was about to push them outward, a voice behind him called.

"Think about it Sherlock!"

Sherlock paused casting a glance behind him and Lestrade.

"You know the consequences Greg." His voice was level, even, foreboding. John's eyebrows crinkled together as he observed his flat mate. He had called Greg by his name rather than some strange alteration such as Gavin or Gary. Sherlock cast a look back at Lestrade who shook his head but held a hand up in greeting toward John. John returned the sentiment with a nod, before turning and attempting to catch up with Sherlock.

"What was that about?" John asked the detective as he briskly walked out of the building.

"There is a murderer rampant on he streets, the sort of thing Lestrade thinks I'll be able to fix." Sherlock answered not looking at John.

"Thinks… what do you mean thinks. Usually you'd be calling Lestrade stupid for not figuring it our earlier or blaming Sally's incompetence or even calling Lestrade's men…"

"I am perfectly aware John." Sherlock interrupted, "While all those things still hold true, this is an enemy that is not so easily defeated… While I could… well in fact it would be quite simple, it would involve me giving something of great value up in recompense and the thing is I'm not entirely sure I'd like to do that just yet." Sherlock frowned. John's eyebrows knitted together and he grabbed Sherlock violently by the arm forcing the detective to stop short and look down at the shorter man.

"Could this save people's lives?" John demanded glaring at the detective. Sherlock seemed a bit taken aback.

"John…" he began.

"_Could it!"_ John hissed again. Sherlock sighed.

"Yes." He answered simply. John yanked on the arm he still had hold of.

"Then what is holding you back, what could possibly be worth another persons life, what on earth could you possibly be holding onto that's worth more than that?" John demanded of the detective. Sherlock's cold blue eyes betrayed a small tint of sadness before closing down again.

"My humanity." Sherlock said pulling his arm away from John's hand placing his own hands in his pockets and walking off briskly. John stood and watched Sherlock leave, rolling his eyes at the drama queen.

Angrily, fists clenching, John made his way home angrily cooking dinner for his pregnant wife.

"John?" Mary questioned as she lingered in the doorway John angrily chopping vegetables.

"Hmm?" John frowned as he continued hacking through zucchini.

"What's wrong? What's happened?" Mary asked.

"It's Sherlock." John growled as he shoved the zucchini into the frying pan with more force than necessary.

"Ah… say no more." Mary joked, "What is it this time?" she asked. John paused in his angry stirring of vegetables, never mind that the pan wasn't on in the first place, and slammed the spatula on the side of the counter.

"You know… he has… he has the ability to save people, and yet… it's like he doesn't even care. He was going on about how he'd lose something at the cost of someone's life. I couldn't make sense of it… I don't understand him sometimes." John began muttering to himself about sociopaths and consulting detectives. Mary wrapped her arms around John.

"He has his own way of looking at the world. Give him time. He's still learning how to function appropriately to society." Mary joked. John sighed turning to wrap Mary in a hug of his own.

"You know, you're probably right, but if you could save a life, why wouldn't you?" John frowned.

"Would you let me or Sherlock die to save an absolute stranger?" Mary asked. John frowned drawing away from Mary and looking at her.

"Well I know that you both can take care of yourselves… in most cases." John added thinking about how if you didn't force him to eat Sherlock would probably starve himself to death. Mary smiled knowing John's line of thinking.

"Forget about that now… would you?" Mary asked. John frowned.

"No." John finally responded, "I don't suppose I could." Mary nodded.

"Perhaps Sherlock is in a similar situation." Mary sympathized, "I'm sure he'll…" Then Mary's eyes widened and she gripped her stomach.

"The baby…"

"Mary…" John helped Mary to the couch digging his phone out and dialing an ambulance. All thoughts of Sherlock pushed from his head in anticipation of the new baby.

**(Line break)**

"Mycroft." Sherlock said sitting down in the high winged chairs of which Mycroft was so fond.

"Brother mine." Mycroft said taking his gaze away from the dying embers of the fire to observe Sherlock with a smirk, "You look well." He smiled. Sherlock gave him a glare in return, "Yes, well I didn't invite you to talk about your latest scientific break through."

"I know perfectly well why you called me here Mycroft." Sherlock frowned glaring at his brother. Mycroft sighed at Sherlock.

"One of these days you'll stop being so bitter." Mycroft said swirling a glass of wine, "Would you like one?" He asked holding up the glass, "It's quite a good vintage." Mycroft smiled. Sherlock frowned at the glass then sighed.

"Just this once." Sherlock frowned. Mycroft nodded ringing a bell as a servant came rushing in with a wine glass. Sherlock eyes the glass suspiciously.

"What have you put in it?" He asked taking the glass as the servant hastily retreated. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Why do you always assume the worst of me?" He asked. Sherlock sniffed the glass looking into its contents with a withering look.

"The glass was pre-prepared, you expected me to take one, you wanted me to…" Sherlock raised his eyes to Mycroft.

"I haven't done anything to your glass Sherlock, I was just hoping to have a drink with my brother." Mycroft sighed. Sherlock looked Mycroft over then sighed raising the glass.

"Well then… in good faith." Sherlock gave a small salute to Mycroft with his glass and took a sip before continuing to stare at his brother who only stared back. The two of them sat like that for a while, slowly sipping wine as their minds drifted off on separate paths. The room grew dark and cold as the embers when out in the fireplace. There was a faint light coming through the window and a light from under the door that gave vague illumination to the room.

"You should tell John." Mycroft finally spoke.

"No." Sherlock said simply his gaze out the window.

"Either way, England needs you." Mycroft insisted.

"England always seems to need me." Sherlock rolled his eyes, the two brothers held gazes for a while.

"This is serious Sherlock." Mycroft said levelly before taking another sip of wine. Sherlock finished off his glass setting it on the end table.

"I won't do it Mycroft." Sherlock responded. Mycroft sighed looking at Sherlock suddenly with pity.

"You'll have to." He responded. Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket.

"You made a vow remember." Mycroft said, "This is part of it." Sherlock frowned.

"Do give the new parents my best." Mycroft said as Sherlock left the room, drawing his coat and scarf on before pulling the phone out on his way out the door. It was a text from John.

_The baby's coming_.

**(Line break)**

Sherlock entered the room hesitantly; he knew from the atmosphere that things hadn't gone well. Mary was crying and holding onto John. John was keeping a stiff upper lip, but you could see the frustration in his eyes. Sherlock was about to exit the room when John called to him.

"Sherlock." John frowned.

"John..." Sherlock said facing away from the doorway, "I couldn't possibly understand how hard it must be for you…" He paused, "I… I don't know what to say in way of comfort, I am not usually one to extend such a sentiment… but…" Sherlock stopped looking at the defeated looks on the would-be parents. John nodded.

"I know." He spoke simply. Sherlock bowed his head preferring not to speak rather than rattle off useless facts that would no doubt make things worse. There was silence in the room, only punctuated by Mary's muffled sobs. John shook his head.

"It's hard…" he sighed, "It's hard… something like this… I…" John looked up at Sherlock as if he had the answers, "Why did something like this have to happen?"

Sherlock looked back at John blue eyes flicking about.

"I don't know." Sherlock frowned at John, "I am so sorry John." Sherlock turned to leave.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, Sherlock turned observing John, "You have the power to save innocents." He accused. Sherlock's quick eyes looked away from the accusatory gaze of the doctor.

"You don't even know what you ask of me." Sherlock sighed. John frowned.

"That doesn't matter, you could keep others from feeling this sort of loss." John stood up leaving Mary and grabbing Sherlock by the arm, "Whoever dies… they could be someone's brother, sister, spouse, parent…" John swallowed hard "child… and you… you could save them." John glared.

"John, your current state is giving you a skewed perception of-"

"Am I wrong?" John cut Sherlock off. Sherlock sighed.

"No." Sherlock replied levelly, "You are not wrong." He confirmed. John let go of Sherlock's arm.

"You're right John." Sherlock said softer this time, "I'll be on the case by the morning." He said before leaving. John returned to Mary's side holding her close .

"That was a bit harsh." She whispered wiping away tears.

"Sometimes he needs it." John insisted.

Outside the door, Sherlock looked in like a specter before turning away solemnly heading down the hall and into the night.

**(Line Break)**

John arrived in the flat two days later to find it empty. He'd come with a sense of apologizing but more to see what the case was about. He found no files, not even a hint of what was going on in London. John searched for Sherlock, but the flat was really empty, he sat down in his chair debating on whether or not to head back home, where Mary was taking some time off, or to continue to wait for the detective. In the end curiosity won out and Sherlock returned to find John reading a paper in the flat.

"John." Sherlock said as more of a question then a statement. John looked up, Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf before sitting down in the chair opposite, more perching then anything else.

"How's the case going?" John inquired suspiciously as none of the usual case related paraphernalia was on display.

"Over." Sherlock said darkly. John started at the tone in his friend's voice.

"Over?" he asked.

"Yes, for now. The murder was found dead this morning. He'd had his head chopped off rather dramatically." Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"His head… he had his head chopped off?" John balked.

"Yes. Either someone got their revenge or he was dispatched before I could get to him." Sherlock frowned, "either way I suspect that there is someone behind these attacks." Sherlock frowned rolling up his sleeves and standing pulling a box from the many boxes on his desk. John noticed that the white gauze was back in place on the left wrist.

"Stab yourself in the morgue again?" John asked raising an eyebrow.

"Experiment." Sherlock said dismissively.

"In the same place?" Questioned a skeptical John, Sherlock turned setting the box on between then.

"Yes." He said curtly, he began pulling items out of the box, "Each one of these things was found at one of the crime scenes." There was an abused yew branch, a fake eyeball with a red iris that seemed to be some sort Halloween decoration, and a magnetic O.

"Okay…" John frowned at the strangeness of the objects. Sherlock raised an eyebrow placing the items in an order: the eye, then the magnetic O, and then the yew branch.

"They were found this way, first the eye at the first crime scene, then the O, then the branch." Sherlock revealed. John frowned.

"Eye, O… yew… IOU." John drew back, "So he's really back is he?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"It would seem so." Sherlock sighed drawing back in his chair, "I believe he orchestrated this as a way to taunt me."

John looked at the other things in the box, silver crosses, holy water, and garlic.

"What's all this?" he questioned holding up a garlic bolo.

"Moriarty. At our last encounter I told him I wasn't an angel, just on the side of the angels. I suspect it's a joke about me therefore being a demon." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John laughed a little.

"So if I spray you with this you're not going to burn?" John said holding up a spray bottle with a cross on it.

"Don't be childish John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. John laughed replacing the spray bottle in the box. Sherlock grabbed his violin and began tuning it, plucking the strings and turning the knobs.

"We're having a funeral Sherlock." John said. Sherlock stopped tuning the violin lowering it and giving John his full attention.

"I expected as much." Sherlock said, John gave him a look; "I didn't mean it like that. I know that it was hard for you… losing the baby… You need the closure, a funeral wouldn't be amiss." Sherlock explained. John nodded.

"Will you be there?" he asked. Sherlock paused taking in his friend.

"If you want me to." Sherlock said. John nodded, "Then I'll be there."

"Thank you." John said, Sherlock continued tuning the violin. They sat like that for a while till Sherlock's phone began buzzing. He picked it up reading over the text messages before pocketing the device and heading out the door.

"Coming?" Sherlock asked John pulling his jacket on.

"I'd actually better be getting home to Mary." John said. Sherlock nodded.

"Of course." He headed out the door, John followed as Sherlock hailed a cab.

"See you at the funeral." Sherlock solemnly muttered to John before climbing into the taxi. John sighed giving a half wave to Sherlock in the cab before turning to climb into his car.

**(Line Break)**

The funeral was somber, friends from all places, Misses Hudson, Mike Stamford, Stella and Ted, even John's therapist. Sherlock stood in the back like a spectre, not moving, not talking to anyone. John figured it was for the best, but though he knew it would never happen, he longed for the comfort of his best friend.

Songs were sung, words shared, John and Mary each gave a speech. Sherlock had declined.

John remembered broaching the subject while Sherlock sat at the kitchen table fiddling with some experiment or other.

"_At the funeral… Well… I'll be giving a little speech. Sort of a…"_

"_Sentiment." Sherlock said simply, though not with the usual malice or sneering disapproval as usual. John nodded._

"_Yes. It's about closure I think." John said. Sherlock nodded. "Would you like to say a few words?" John asked, Sherlock looked up from his microscope and stared at John._

"_John… I think as shown by the evidence of my best man speech that it is now well advised for me to speak for any matter of time about affairs concerning the heart…" Sherlock looked John up and down, "While under normal circumstances, or in a lighter hearted occasion I would seize the opportunity to talk about all that is wrong with society's obsession with sentiment and of a strange tradition of honoring the dead who no longer have any impact on our lives or themselves care where they end up…" John began glaring at Sherlock, Sherlock took a breath and continued, "I've learned that sort of behavior is frowned upon, while I have come to understand, admittedly very little about the ceremonies and traditions by which we mark the passing of a loved one, I do understand loss John. That being said, it would probably not be for the best having me give a speech at the funeral." Sherlock turned back to preparing another slide of what appeared to be kidneys and baking soda, and the matter was dropped._

John felt as if he was in autopilot. He soon found himself by the closed baby casket each person coming up to him and apologizing for his loss. John frowned. Why should they apologize, what part did they play that made them guilty of his daughter being stillborn. Perhaps he had hung around Sherlock too much lately. John nonetheless thanked them for their kind words and their comforting embraces.

"John." Came Sherlock's voice, soft, eyes lowered unwilling it seemed to meet John's.

"Sherlock." John nodded.

"I wish I could understand your loss. I will not offer my sympathies, as I cannot possibly sympathize with you in this matter. I wish that I could, but as your apparently best friend, I will not belittle you by offering false comfort and apologizing for a fate I could not control nor could, even with all my powers of deduction, have predicted. I am… well…" Sherlock now met John's eyes trying to find the words, "I feel… distressed at the way this has affected you, I do not wish you to be burdened by sadness nor do I understand the complexity and depth of emotions running through you at the moment, one of which is probably anger at this long winded and rather terrible attempt to comfort you in this time of grief. Just know, I will always be there for you, you and Mary, till the end of my existence. If there is some way in which I can possibly be of assistance, within reason, as I will not bother you with massive quantities of food you could never possibly eat, nor could I concoct…" Sherlock sighed shaking his head and making a vague hand gesture, "The point I'm trying to make…"

"Oh Sherlock." Mary frowned, "We understand." She wrapped the tall man in a hug, which he reciprocated awkwardly. John and Sherlock gave each other's hands a quick squeeze. Any more emotional contact would have been amiss in the two men who had such hard times expressing their feelings. Sherlock nodded.

"John." In the direction of his best friend, "Mary." In the direction of his wife, before moving along the line while people continued to sort through, most whispering about Sherlock and some calling him an arse appalled by his lack of tact and empathy.

Yet funnily enough Sherlock's words had calmed John, gave him some clarity. It seemed to John in that moment that Sherlock was the only genuine person in the room. It wasn't that the others did not have a sense of John's loss; in fact most others probably understood it better than Sherlock could have. Yet Sherlock did not look upon him with pity, he knew better than that, knew that John did not want his pity or his empty apology. Coming from anyone else it would have seemed crass and malicious; from Sherlock it was a breath of fresh air. The honesty with which he spoke was somehow better than the never ending "sorry for you loss" he'd received. John found it hard to understand why Sherlock's words had meant so much to him. He glanced at Sherlock who had made his way to the hall only to be stopped by a priest. John wondered what he did this time, possibly insulted god or told someone that a nun was sleeping around or something equally offensive.

John turned his attention back to the funeral, losing Sherlock to the crowd.

**(Line Break)**

As Sherlock left the funeral home a black car pulled up, Sherlock sighed, the melodramatic antics of his brother growing old. The door opened and Sherlock climbed in deciding that this was one of those "choose your battles" moments.

Mycroft was smirking in the seat across him as Sherlock sat down.

"A funeral is the last place I thought I'd see you brother mine." Mycroft analyzed the other Holmes.

"John wanted me to come. How was I to decline?" Sherlock said in a bored tone looking out the window, yet the hint of defensiveness was not missed on Mycroft.

"How is not getting involved working for you Sherlock? I thought that was the key to living with your… ah… condition." Mycroft hinted. Sherlock's eyes narrowed flicking to Mycroft with a cold glare.

"I don't see how that is any of your concern Mycroft." Sherlock hissed. Mycroft chuckled.

"Really now?" Mycroft scoffed, "It is only for your safety that I chose a position in the British Government, keeping your little secret under wraps can hardly be considered easy." Mycroft scoffed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Please. Don't act as if you didn't seek the position for your own gain and power. The fact that you could keep me caged up like your own personal experiment is just an added bonus to you." Sherlock drawled before looking out the window as London passed by. Mycroft's umbrella was suddenly poking Sherlock in the chest pushing him against his seat.

"Don't think that I don't care for you Sherlock. I may not always show it but I could not bear to think of what would happen to you should people become privy to certain information." Mycroft's eyes bored into Sherlock; yet, there was a certain measure of fear and concern behind the cold exterior. Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

"You say that, and yet what you, and Lestrade, asked of me… well that's all but ruined what semblance of a life I had left." Sherlock leaned toward Mycroft, seemingly not aware of the umbrella pushing into his shoulder.

"There is no going back now, surely you know that. When you asked this of me, you must have known what it would cost." Sherlock's eyes glared into his brother's. Mycroft drew back dropping the umbrella.

"It's time to move on Sherlock. You can't stay in Baker Street anymore." Mycroft sighed, "I've made arrangements. You can't be around John Watson anymore, or live the life you lived while your condition was being managed." Mycroft stated this matter-of-factly as the car pulled to a stop. Sherlock opened the door and exiting the vehicle.

"Watch me." He spat back at Mycroft before slamming the door closed and walking with long irritated strides to 221 B.

Mycroft sighed in the back. He had figured that he was brother would respond like this. Sherlock would try to keep what he'd claimed as his right to live. It wouldn't last. Mycroft wondered what would happen when John found out. That would bring an end to all the nonsense with Sherlock. When John found out, Sherlock would see sense, and he'd move on. Mycroft leaned back in the seat; he may just have to help John along.

**(Line Break)**

John stood at the door to 221 B. Deep depressing tones being dragged out of the violin by the occupant. John's forehead furrowed as he pushed the door open, Sherlock standing in a darkened room violin poised under his chin fingertips delicately fingering the strings, arm dragging the bow across as if in a caress. The sound was beautiful, and dark. John frowned, it been a while since he heard Sherlock play a song of that mood. Sherlock stopped abruptly turning toward John.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked turning.

"Yes what?" John responded with a confused glance around the room.

"Yes? As in what do you want? That is still the expression is it not?" Sherlock remarked sarcastically.

"Why do you assume I want something?" John asked moving to sit in his chair as Sherlock gently set the violin down, as opposed to throwing it half distracted out of the way.

"You've come to visit me during your lunch hour just a few days after the funeral of your daughter, this is a time you'd be more likely to spend with your wife, and yet here you are, haunting the doorstep of your former flatmate." Sherlock intoned before draping himself into the chair. John noticed that he was still in his bed robe, and nightclothes.

"Just checking up on you, are you real content to sit in the dark like some sort of vampire, it's past noon." John said with equal sarcasm. Sherlock laughed, a rare occasion and John found himself smiling.

"I am very content to sit in the dark like a vampire John. Perhaps I'll even bite you and suck your blood." Sherlock joked.

"Funny." John rolled his eyes.

"Not particularly, it was a joke in poor taste." Sherlock sighed. John gave a slight chuckle.

"Well… I wasn't going to say anything."

"Quite right too, I would have been deeply concerned about your sense of humor." Sherlock folded himself up into the chair laying his head on the armrest his lanky body tucked up beneath him, "The truth now John. Why are you here?"

"Checking up on you, seriously. Mycroft may have said something that worried me." John said. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Did he now?" He sounded skeptical, "Did he give you a heartfelt go check on my brother speech?" Sherlock asked defensive, "I'll have you know I am in perfect health." John rolled his eyes.

"We both know that's not true. You have bags under your eyes and even the dim lights in your hideaway can't conceal it." John said. It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.

"So I'll take a nap. Hardly news worthy, I think my brother is trying to sabotage me with brotherly affection and over concern." Sherlock frowned standing swiftly in his chair before stepping out of it to go open the curtains, "I'm on a case." He gestured to the wall, which was filled with notes and string and photos of corpses.

"A case?" John stood approaching the wall where the photos of the victims had red string leading to red tacks that corresponded with where they had been found.

"Sherlock… I haven't heard about any of these deaths on the news…" John blinked at the brutality of the killings.

"You wouldn't have, my brother is keeping it tightly under wraps, threat to national security he says." Sherlock was standing analyzing the board left arm crossed and right perched on top of it, his hand clenched in front of his face. John glanced at the detective.

"Are you ill?" he said suddenly, Sherlock started.

"What?" Sherlock frowned, "We're looking at a very interesting case involving a madman who has no regard for human life and you're asking me if I'm ill?"

"It's just… you look sickly." John offered half-heartedly. Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"I hardly needed to know that. I'm fine John, I'll look worse before I look better, I am however, still perfectly capable of solving a murder." Sherlock seemed offended and went back to staring at the board. John shook his head muttering drama queen, while Sherlock stepped up onto the couch with dramatic flair.

"I know where the next killing will be." He smirked as he analyzed the map taking it to what him must be an obvious, but to John an invisible pattern.

"What time?" John asked.

"Around ten in-" Sherlock broke off glancing down at John from atop the couch, "you won't be coming John." Sherlock glared down at the man.

"What do you mean? Of course I am." John insisted.

"Your daughter just died, you have a wife at home in need of comfort, you're not just going to go gallivanting off after a killer with me." Sherlock said. John reeled back confused.

"Since when to I get morality lessons from Sherlock Holmes, you are obviously off your game Sherlock, you're not going after criminals alone." John insisted. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I wouldn't call it a morality issue more of a-"

"The point is," John interrupted, "That A: you don't tell me what to do, B: I'm coming with you, C: you're not going to argue about it. I've got to get back to work, but you better be here by the time I get back Sherlock or I swear to god…" John pointed a finger at the man as he left the flat. Sherlock stood there a quizzical look upon his face.

"Yes, sir." Sherlock said sarcastically. John threw his hands up in the air wondering how he ever lived with the menace.

Then next few hours passed by painfully slow for John. As he looked over a patient's chart his eyes started to un-focus, his mind wandering off till a knock on the door brought him back to the present. Jill, the girl filling in for Mary poked her head in.

"Are you alright Dr. Watson? You seem a bit off." The girl asked. John rubbed his eyes then gave her a smile.

"I'm fine." John insisted. Jill nodded like she didn't believe him.

"You see… I only ask because… well, you're done for the day, and you happen to have Dr. Smith's patient's chart." Jill said. John looked down seeing the little tag with Dr. Smith written on the upper right hand corner of a slip of paper detailing why the patient was visiting.

"Oh… right." John blinked. "Sorry, been a bit distracted." He folded the chart up and handed it to Jill, she nodded and stepped out of the room. John picked up his white coat off the back of the chair and headed to the locker rooms.

Once in the locker rooms he yanked his own locker open depositing the white coat into the locker in favor for his black wool and leather coat.

The trek to 221 B was cold; the sky overhead was overcast and menacing. John shivered fractionally as a cold breeze blew through the street. John wished he would have hailed a cab, but he was trying to walk more, especially since Sherlock had continued insulting his weight. As he drew up to 221 B the tips of his ears and fingers had gone a bit numb.

"Sherlock?" he asked as he entered the flat.

Sherlock mumbled something from the couch where he appeared to be napping. John raised his eyebrows; he hardly ever caught Sherlock sleeping. Sherlock cracked an eye open.

"You have time to go home if you wish, I'm meeting Lestrade at Scotland Yard at eight if you'd like to meet us there." Sherlock lazily closed his eyes again and shifted his shoulders on the couch.

"I've already told Mary that I'd be here. Plus, someone has to make you eat something." John addressed the robed man on the couch who made a disgruntled noise. John made his way to the kitchen looking for food.

"Ah… you have…tea and some old carrots." John yelled, "And a hand, but I don't think you want to eat that." John mumbled to himself. He set about preparing himself and the detective a cup of tea.

As the kettle boiled Sherlock appeared in the kitchen pale blue eyes flicking over John's form before resting on his face.

"Are you quite sure you want to come?" He confirmed.

"Of course, can't let you have all the fun." John gave Sherlock a quick smile. Sherlock leaned forward, it seemed as if he was about to say something, but John's clenched and shaking fists caused him to draw back and he simply nodded.

"I'm going to get dressed then." Sherlock went to leave.

"Sherlock?" John called after him.

"Yes?" Sherlock turned fluidly and if John was honest, overdramatically.

"Why is Lestrade coming?" John asked.

"He's the only one I trust in this matter." Sherlock responded before leaving John in the kitchen as the kettle began whistling.

John pulled it off the burner and proceeded to pour two cups adding sugar and cream to Sherlock's and only cream to his own as was usual. John slammed Sherlock's cup down on the table with a little more force then necessary causing it to splash over and onto the floor.

"Aw jeez." John mumbled to himself as he snatched a rag from the counter and proceeded to clean.

"John." Sherlock's legs appeared in the doorway and John tried to stand up, bumping his head on the table and letting out a stream of curses as he righted himself.

"Apologies." Sherlock said offhandedly, John touched the back of his head tenderly, it wouldn't bruise, but it would probably be tender for an hour or so.

"Tea." John gestured to the mug on the table as he through the soiled rag in the sink and reclaimed his own mug.

"Yes…" Sherlock glared at the mug as if it had insulted his intelligence before deciding on ignoring it. John raised an eyebrow but said nothing as Sherlock went about the flat preparing for the evening. He pocketed his usual kit of deductive devices, something Sherlock had his own name for, but John liked the sound of deductive devices and it annoyed Sherlock. Sherlock then pulled a gun out from one of the drawers in the desk and placed it in his waistband before he paused as if in thought. John sipped on his tea watching the detective.

"This is dangerous." Sherlock turned to face John a serious expression on his face. John gave a short laugh.

"Yeah, well it tends to be every time we do this." John took another sip of his tea and was surprised when Sherlock smiled.

"I should have known that wouldn't have put you off… dinner?" Sherlock scooped his coat off the rack and his well-loved scarf making the question of dinner seem more like an order than an actual request. John sighed putting down his tea and following the younger Holmes out the door.

Lestrade was coming up the stairs. Sherlock stopped, John nearly running into him.

"Glen?" Sherlock asked confused.

"It's… oh bollocks it, never mind, we found the murder." Greg informed. Sherlock's head tilted.

"What makes me think that this is bad news?" Lestrade sighed at Sherlock's tone.

"He's dead." Lestrade huffed.

"Dead?" John piped up from behind Sherlock; Lestrade seemed surprised to hear from him.

"John… wha-what are you doing here? Did Sherlock finally tell-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted. "John was going to accompany me on this case as he walked in while I was sorting data." Lestrade gave him a weird look.

"Tell me what?" John asked from behind. Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at John then to each other.

"Surprise Party."

"Beheadings."

Sherlock and Lestrade both said at the same time. They both glance back between each other.

"Well obviously you two are hiding something." John rolled his eyes, as Sherlock seemed to be concocting a convincing lie, "Lucky for you, I'm more curious about this dead killer, shall we go?"

Sherlock nodded breezing past Lestrade and onto the street, John close behind. The two hailed a taxi and climbed in as Lestrade favored the police car out front.

As they pulled up to the morgue Sherlock hesitated, John paused as the genius seemed about to tell him something, but then Sherlock shook his head and continued into the building.

Molly gave a nod to each man as they entered leading them over to a body the head of which had been separated from the torso. Sherlock sniffed the air then wrinkled his nose looking over the corpse.

"How unusual that he should be killed when he hasn't completed his killings yet." Sherlock pulled on a pair of gloves and began poking and prodding at the body. His fingers palpitated along a small bullet wound in the chest above the heart.

"I take it this isn't the cause of death?" He glanced up at Molly who shook her head. Sherlock smirked.

"And yet he was shot before he was decapitated?" Sherlock confirmed. He sent a glance over at Lestrade.

"This is our man." Sherlock continued examining the body.

"I… Well I found something in his stomach I thought you'd like to see." Molly held out a small bag. Sherlock took it holding it up to the light. It was a small vial and inside was a note that had been rolled to fit inside.

"It was placed in his stomach post-mortem was it not?" Sherlock said opening the bag and opening the note. "I-O-U." Sherlock read, then rolled his eyes.

"He does love to be dramatic." He then turned to Lestrade.

"You'd make a perfect couple." John muttered under his breath as he inspected the body in Sherlock's wake.

"This man and the one before were working for Moriarty, I suspect they are part of a specially put together team. Yet these men are throwaway soldiers, they were created to be killed, once they've outlived their purpose or once we've gotten to close to the truth they are dispatched. I'm not sure how many others are out there. But I know for sure they're going to change their patterns. We're looking at an outbreak of them on our hands. Lestrade we have to be vig-" Sherlock suddenly turned. "… Wait… Oh! We may catch them yet, tonight's Target is important, chance of a lifetime, we have to get there right away, Molly, you know what to do with the remains, Lestrade the car, I'll meet you there, I can move faster on my own." Sherlock flew into action turning a manic glint in his eye and smirk on his face, his gaze rested on John.

"The game is on." And with that he burst out of the doors to the morgue leaving John to catch up with him.

**(Line break)**

Admittedly John was regretting insisting on going along with Sherlock. They were up a tree of all things at the moment. And while Sherlock seemed to gaze at the faraway darkened ground like an ever-vigilant statue, John's leg was starting to go numb and his fingers were like ice. The night air wasn't forgiving and John had bundled himself into his jacket the tips of his ears red and his breath fogging up around him. He glanced over at Sherlock for what felt like the thousandth time that night to find the detective staring at him. He shook his head in a manner that asked "What?" Sherlock shook his head back meaning he'd tell him later if at all and went back to staring at the ground.

A sudden stiffness in the detective's posture made John squint at the ground. He couldn't see anything but Sherlock's eyes had always been better than his. Sherlock suddenly springing from the tree like an attacking panther. He landed lithely on the ground and took off after an unseen attacker as John scrambled of his perch behind him.

John took off at a sprint behind the two dark shapes running through the park, a bright light illuminated the two and the first figure seemed shocked, Lestrade had a gun out. Sherlock tackled the first figure, John caught up to him drawing his gun out as Sherlock held the struggling figure to the ground. It was a young man, early twenties, and he was spouting off all sorts of curses at Sherlock. The man locked eyes with John and smirked. Suddenly Lestrade was pulling John away, three meters away from where Sherlock was sat atop the struggling man.

"What the hell?" John pulled his arm from Lestrade's grasp.

"Safe distance. Sherlock will be able to catch him again should he escape." Lestrade explained.

"Sherlock looks like he's got him pretty much taken care of." John pointed out as Sherlock continued to wear out the struggling man by sitting on his hips and holding his wrists to the ground.

"Well if you haven't noticed Sherlock's not exactly at full strength." Lestrade snapped, "This a precaution." John wanted to argue but it seemed as if Sherlock's attempts to hold the man down were becoming weaker. Sherlock adjusted his position, holding the man's head in the crook of his arm while Sherlock let his full weight rest on the man's hips Sherlock's legs keeping one of the man's elevated so that the man couldn't get good leverage to throw Sherlock off, Sherlock's free arm spread across the pavement to keep from rolling over as well.

"Too close." Lestrade muttered. But whatever fears Lestrade may have had they were never realized as the man gave up panting. Sherlock stayed his position a moment longer before sitting back up, his knees poking into the man's ribs.

"Lestrade… you may want to turn your back for this bit." Sherlock began taking something out of his coat pocket. Lestrade shook his head.

"Should you cock it up I'm the last line of defense that poor woman as got." Lestrade tried to sound confident but John noticed the hand clenching the gun was shaking ever so slightly. Sherlock pulled out a syringe and began filling it with a clear, viscous liquid.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?" John asked taking a step forward. Lestrade held his arm in front of John and stopped him from getting any closer.

"It's a sedative of sorts, I developed it myself specifically for creature's like him. Foul repulsive things living in the darkness and waste of society." Sherlock jabbed the needle into the man's neck, "Took me ages to work out, this will keep him quiet while we transport him to a special place. Keep him from giving us any trouble too." Sherlock commented. The man gave a short coughing laugh as he looked up at Sherlock.

"We may have failed this time Mr. Holmes, but there are plenty of other opportunities." The man sneered.

"Clearly not, otherwise you would have planned for a different night once the other was dead because they realized I'd noticed your pattern. Your employer was either hoping that I'd be thrown off the trail by your predecessor's death or, more likely, sending me after you as a diversion. Fortunately for you, I need you alive, so I'm not going to kill you in a horrendously gruesome fashion as he hoped, at least not until I get some information out of you."

"Too late for you though, she's already dead." The man slurred as the sedative took effect.

"Is she really though? I suspected many months ago that an attempt was to be made on her life and planned thoroughly with my brother, you know my brother don't you, an allowance was to be made for an apparent lax of security through which you or another throw away man was to be slipped. Your cohort is being detained as we speak. Not quite with the civilities I've allowed I'm afraid. You see… my brother is particularly intrigued by how your funny little brains work and… well the rest I'm not at liberty to say, but I assume you get the picture." Sherlock glared down at the man.

"How does it feel to betray your own." The man spat out, though the words were heavily muddled, they were still decipherable.

Sherlock leaned down to the man's face.

"Satisfying." Sherlock smirked then he handcuffed the man and stood up.

"There you are Lestrade, all ready for shipment, you get this one, and my brother gets the other, everyone's happy, and there's jam for tea. Get him into the holding cell and text me when he wakes up. Lets go John." Sherlock turned on his heel as Lestrade began dragging the body into the police car from which the light that had disoriented the would-be-killer earlier was still shining onto the scene.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after the detective. Sherlock paused, Lestrade took that as consent to continue, "You will be coming back later, for the interview correct, you'll explain everything to the team?"

"Don't want to deal with Donovan thanks." Sherlock continued walking. Lestrade muttered as the door closed the man inside's head thumping against the door painfully.

John caught up with Sherlock.

"What did you mean about 'creatures like him' surely they're human?" John asked as he matched stride with his former flatmate.

"They've developed immunity to most sedatives, takes quite a lot to bring them down, not usually many of them around anymore, but I suspect Moriarty has been bringing them into the fold through a man who knows a man. They used to exist all over, you'd view them as monsters. The things their kind has wrought on the human race, they are often used as assassins, take pleasure in the killing and are not above indulging in the debauchery of mankind. They're a specific clan of killers refined to kill without being killed. Others similar are quite content to sit in the shadows, but whomever Moriarty is in with is turning out killers one by one, just to get our attention. Now that they've got it, let's make sure they get the full complement."

**(Line Break)**

John eased himself onto the couch leaning his head back onto one of the many pillows Mary had acquired. At the time it seemed crazy to get so many pillows for a couch, but John wasn't complaining, as it was relaxing and much needed.

"Long day?" Mary was standing in the doorway. John rubbed his eyes.

"Yes… I should probably get to bed." He stood up and made his way across the room. Mary stopped him wrapping her arms around him.

"What's wrong John?" Her eyes were kind and worried. John sighed.

"I'm not sure, there's something Sherlock isn't telling me about this case." John shook his head.

"Well, from what I've heard of your adventures its rather commonplace for him." Mary teased. John sighed rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"It's something more than that." John frowned.

"Something more? I think you're just worried about him." Mary smiled, "It's sweet, but Sherlock can take care of himself." John nodded.

"You're right, I know you're right, it's just… I can't help but think about it, it wouldn't get to me as much if I didn't know that Lestrade and Mycroft were in on whatever it is." John grumbled.

"It's Sherlock John, he'll tell you eventually. Chances are he'd like to say something now. But you know how he is, overanalyzing everything, poor communication skill, even worse people skills. Give him time John, he'll tell you." Mary rubbed John's arm.

"You're right." John smiled.

"'Course I am, I'm your wife." Mary then gave him a coy smile and headed to the bedroom. John hesitated a moment longer before flipping off the light switch and following her.

**(Line Break)**

Sherlock stood on John's doorstep of all place. John, in his pajamas still, balked at the site.

"You really should close your mouth now." Sherlock instructed. John did so as Mary shuffled to the door.

"Hello Sherlock." Mary smiled.

"Mary." Sherlock dipped his head slightly in greeting; "I was rather hoping I could borrow your husband for the day."

"I have work." John protested.

"Mycroft's given you the day off, supplied a replacement as well. He's being oddly accommodating, I should probably expect a request to take mummy to the theatre in his place soon." Sherlock sighed. John snorted and Mary gave a hearty laugh.

"Well, don't be too long." Mary smiled. John gave her a look.

"Who said I would be going?" John protested.

"You've already grabbed your coat and you're not even dressed." Mary pointed out. Indeed, John had taken his coat off the peg by the door. He sighed and Sherlock and Mary shared a smile.

"I'll be right back." John insisted. He headed back to the bedroom for some clothes and a fresh pair of pants, leaving Sherlock to the mercy of Mary.

As he changed he grumbled and Detectives and their British Government Brothers, but in actuality he was interested in seeing where this new case would take them. There was something about it unlike anything he'd encountered before.

Sherlock had taken to analyzing pictures of Mary, John and their friends that had been left out on the coffee table and making rude comments about the frame's inhabitants. Upon John's arrival he'd stood swiftly and with a small smile headed out the door fully expecting John to follow. John debated whether or not to stay back just to stick it to the bastard, but, as always, followed Sherlock out the door where he immediately slipped into a taxi he must have had on stand.

"Oi, you said you'd only be ten minutes." The driver complained.

"Just drive." Sherlock muttered situating himself near the window. The cabbie muttered to himself but pulled away from the curb for a destination unknown to John. The first few minutes of the drive passed by in silence as Sherlock stared out the window lost in his thoughts. Then curiosity got the better of John.

"Are you going to tell me what this is all about?" John inquired.

"It's concerning last night's case. Our sloppy would-be-assasin has finally woken up. I fear I rather misjudged the dosage I gave him, I expected him to be awake within two hours time, not nine. Nonetheless, He's awake and in the mood for a little chat, or rather I am before Mycroft's goons get ahold of him." Sherlock disclosed.

"We're going to go question the murderer?" He asked baffled.

"Yes… something wrong?" Sherlock questioned.

"Not really… just not your usual MO… you usually leave the questioning to Lestrade, usually with a comment about how even they could figure it out now." John pointed out.

"Special circumstance." Sherlock waved John off. John nodded; Sherlock was prone to strange bouts of inconsistency. The cab pulled up to what looked like a residential building. Sherlock passed he cabbie a note and slipped out of the cab. John blinked following Sherlock into the house. Lestrade was on a discount, second hand looking couch with a battered table in front of him. Various files and instruments lay on the table along with various syringes and drugs.

"Crack house?" John looked to Sherlock for answers.

"No." Lestrade stood giving both Sherlock and John an once over, "Hadn't thought you'd be here… did Sherlock explain the situation to you yet." John gave a short humorless laugh.

"No, he's decided to leave out that little detail." John replied only half joking.

"That he seems to do, you must be mental to trust him blindly like that." Lestrade shook his head then looked to Sherlock.

"Seeing is believing. You know very well." Sherlock then turned on his heel and headed through the house Lestrade and John following the detective's lead.

As they went through the mangy old house to the even mangier basement John contemplated why he would blindly follow Sherlock. Did he trust the man? Obviously. Whether that was a sane thing to do or not was debatable, though leading to insane. Sherlock had even admitted to drugging John for various experiments at is wedding, so why did John trust him? He'd not been there on many occasions in which the typical friend would likely be at, such as John's birthday dinners, and promotion party. Then again Sherlock wasn't there for the promotion party because he'd faked his own death obviously not trusting John enough with the details of that leaving John to mourn his not so dead best friend for two years.

Sherlock suddenly pulled short jarring John out of his thoughts. The man from the previous night sat in a prison in the basement. It appeared to be made of thick bulletproof glass, large canisters had been rigged into the sides of the prison, which looked to hold a gas of some sort. Sherlock walked up to the prison and stared it's captive in the eyes. The man within smiled.

"Did you miss me?" He questioned. Sherlock didn't appear amused and nodded to a man off to the side who twisted a knob releasing gas into the cage. The knob twisted off and even though a small spurt of gas leaked into the glass cage the man inside seemed to feel it's effects immediately. The man began sweating and became weak in the knees falling over and shaking viciously before coming back around blinking confused at how he had gotten on the ground.

A minute passed in silence as the man recovered looking up at Sherlock.

"What was that?" The man demanded.

"A chemical concoction of my own making, took many experiments too perfect, nearly killed myself once while testing it. Mycroft wasn't pleased, the point is, the more gas that comes into this tank the more you feel the effects. It's starts with confusion and dizziness, then nausea and vomiting, slowly progressing till you are making quite a vile display of your innards, and of course eventually killing you." Sherlock stared down at the man.

"You wouldn't, there are humans in the room." The man pointed out. John himself was feeling a bit nervous in the presence of the gas. Yet this just caused Sherlock to laugh.

"You think you're so invincible don't you? Funny thing supposed immortality is, you think nothing can kill you. I have twelve different ways to kill you right now, the most dramatic of which involves chopping off your head and stuffing it with garlic, but lets hope it doesn't come to that." Sherlock smirked, "This particular gas has been refined from a certain property that gave rise to the Holy Water myth, obviously religiously blessed water can't really harm you, that would genuinely be a laugh, this however, is an a compound that can be found in water that attacks your body and is actually completely benign in the presence of humans." Sherlock finished. Now John was confused, either this was all some elaborate joke designed by Sherlock and Lestrade with an entire team in on it, including Donovan, or this was really serious. Something inhuman was in that cage, that or everyone except John had gone crazy, or perhaps the gas was hallucinogenic or…

John's mind rattled of countless possibilities Sherlock's voice rumbling in the distance. He was brought back to the present by Greg's hand on his arm.

"You aren't looking to good John, do you need a chair?" Lestrade asked. John shook his head.

"I'm… I really… I'll be fine… I think…" John tried to focus back on Sherlock his mind dismissing every possible suggestion that something unnatural was happening.

The man in the box was talking to Sherlock rapidly.

"I was promised riches you see, and immortality, he promised I was immortal. Said I couldn't die, but the others you see, they went missing from time to time, and we just followed orders." The man babbled. Sherlock put his hand up and he stopped short of his next sentence.

"All very interesting Stephen, but I know this already, he dangles a carrot in front of you while setting you on a treadmill, boring. I want to know where he's hiding, I want to know who his generals are, how much of his network he's reactivated." Sherlock demanded. The man, now identified as Stephen, growled, literally snarled at Sherlock. Sherlock remained impassive staring Stephen down. A couple minutes passed and John shifted from foot to foot, the air in the room had gone deadly, even Donovan and Lestrade had taken to lingering by the foot of the stairs should things get ugly. John started retreating when a loud thump on the glass made them all jump.

Sherlock had pounded the glass with his fist intense eyes staring at Stephen who curled back.

"There are other ways of making you talk, interesting fact about that gas… you'll feel as if your flesh is burning, your lungs will be on fire, your head will be pounding at a thousand miles an hour. You will wish you had died the first time so you would not be subjected to this hell, and slowly it will kill you. You wanted to be immortal, to be free of pain, of the frailty of a human body, it's weak confines, you wanted power, you wanted strength. But let me tell you something. I am not like you. I don't care about power, or strength, the thing I crave is knowledge. I am willing to go to any lengths to stop Moriarty and put him back in his grave. Trust me when I tell you that your pitiful existence means nothing to me in the grand scheme of things." Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper, and yet it seemed to reverberate throughout the whole room. Stephen held Sherlock's gaze. Sherlock smirked.

"You don't believe me?" Sherlock read in his face, he turned on his heel walking toward the gas tank manager who retreated in the wrath of the detective. Sherlock then began turning the dials on the side of the tank and letting the gas into the glass chamber. The effect was instantaneous, Stephen slumped before grabbing hold of the glass wall, he then began violently puking while his skin turned red and began to sizzle in patches. The vomiting increased and Sherlock stayed his hand, not lessening the amount of gas nor turning it off. Something almost evil played through the detectives eyes, John felt his heart clench and skip a beat.

"Sherlock!"

The name was out of his mouth before he realized it. Stephen was writhing on the floor in agony, clawing at his mouth and skin and stomach. Sherlock's eyes met John's.

John's eyes never left Sherlock's, but the screaming stopped and eventually faded to low whimpering. Sherlock was first to break eye contact, turning back to Stephen in the cage. John lowered his gaze to the thing on the floor, the skin was bleeding and red, puckered and peeling, his eyes were bleeding and swollen, digits blown up twice their size. And yet as the last of the gas was sucked up into the ventilator a miraculous thing happened. Stephen's swelling went down, slowly at first and then all at once. His skin began healing, leaving pink wounded flesh behind, eyes resuming their usual state, bleeding stopping.

John was transfixed, he didn't understand what had happened, from a medical viewpoint it should take years to fully recover, and yet Stephen looked as if he had just suffered from a mild sunburn, which that too was quickly fading. John back reeled nearly tripping over a wire in the process.

Sherlock was unmoved, John balked: this was the man who couldn't accept a genetically engineered dog being reality, who was reduced to a shaking mess after encountering it. Yet here he was, staring blankly at a man he has almost killed, or whatever manner of creature Stephen turned out to be. This couldn't be happening, this couldn't be real. It must have been some sort of trick of the light, or perhaps he was still asleep, maybe Sherlock had drugged him for some wild experiment, the list of possibilities went on. The ground began swaying and John stumbled about for some sort of balance Lestrade helped him into a chair.

"Answers, NOW!" Sherlock barked at Stephen. Shaking Stephen shook his head.

"I… I don't know… I just get orders… I carry them out, I do what I want with any other time, I'm always careful though, I know what would happen if I wasn't… please…" Stephen begged. Sherlock looked down at the thing before him.

"Give him to Mycroft." Sherlock turned angrily away from the cage and then he sighted John.

"Sher… Sherlock?" John blinked, "What just happened?" John pointed to the cage, "Tell me that wasn't real… some trick or illusion… drugs?" John fumbled over his words a bit trying to make sense of the world. Sherlock stood in front of him.

"That, John Watson," Sherlock said pointing to Stephen, "Is what you'd call a vampire. Lestrade, and a somewhat trusted team help capture them. Mycroft keeps them out of public knowledge, and I… well I do what I always do, I consult." Sherlock 767bluntly informed John, "Any questions?"

"You're not serious." John managed with a chuckle.

"Not in the way you're imagining them, no. However, I assure you that this creature is as real as I am, and now that you've witnessed it, what are you going to believe. The evidence of your own eyes and ears, or what you've been taught to believe your whole life?" Sherlock waited patiently for John's answer. The pieces started connecting for John, this is what Sherlock had been hiding from him, the dark under belly of London. Sure John had seen plenty of sewers and murders and darkness, but this was something else entirely. John took a deep breath looking at the creature, the vampire in the cage.

"I'm gonna have to sleep on it." John decided, and it was then that everything decided to go black.

**(Line Break)**

It had been a few weeks since the last time John seen Sherlock; he had seen neither hide nor hair of the detective since then. Along with the awful bomb shell that had been dropped on him and work and trying to function as if there weren't things that went bump in the night, John hadn't made the effort to go see his one time flat mate and current best friend. Sherlock, it seemed, had secluded himself from the rest of the world and while the gnawing questions in the back of John's mind had yet to go away, John was quite busy attempting to be a functioning member of society. So it was by chance and quite a bit of curiosity that John had been passing through the neighborhood and on a whim decided to drop in on his former housemate.

Everything looked the same that was until John glanced up halfway up the stairs to see huge heavy black curtains blocking off both entrances to the flat.

Granted, John had seen stranger, but the curtains gave him pause. Misses Hudson hurriedly exited one of the curtains her face lighting up as she beheld John.

"Oh, look at you. Been a while since you've been around here." She gushed, "Sherlock's just lounging in the dark, been doing that for about a week, can't say that I'm surprised, but it's still rather unusual don't you think?"

John came level with Misses Hudson on the landing and gave a brief nod.

"What's all this about then?" He gestured to the black draping.

"He keeps saying it's for a case, but I'm beginning to wonder, he hasn't have case nor client now since those murders he was raving on about." She fiddled with the necklace around her neck casting a wary glance at the curtain. John nodded again.

"Perhaps… perhaps he'll tell me." John nodded again as if that would convince himself then entered the flat. It was nearly pitch black within. Small cracks of light shone in through the windows where more dark curtains had failed to swallow the sun. It took a while for John's eyes to adjust, even when they did he could only barely make out half shadowed figures and shapes.

"Hello John." Came from the general direction of the couch. John swallowed and peered in that direction invoking a chuckle from the detective secluded in darkness.

"Sherlock…" John raised an eyebrow, "What are you doing lurking about in the dark?" John shuffled his way over to the window knocking his shin against the coffee table and letting out a steady stream of curses before he made it to the window. He peered out briefly the light blinding him in the darkness before he closed the curtain and retreated back into the dark abyss of the flat.

"You haven't had a case in weeks according to Misses Hudson, so what's all this about then?" John gestured around the flat unsure if Sherlock could even see him. His vision still showed the afterimage of the street below, though it was quickly fading.

"Case." Sherlock stated simply. John shook his head.

"Care to elaborate?" John inquired. Sherlock said nothing, John sighed, "Well I'm opening the curtains, from what I hear you've been holed up in here far to long, despite what you may believe the human body needs sun." John pulled the curtains open abruptly. A shout and a thud from behind him informed John that Sherlock had fallen off the couch, and quite violently too. He chuckled.

"John!" Sherlock cried indignantly as he attempted to crawl across the floor to seek shade, John shrugged then made his way over to the other curtain.

"Slowly, slowly John." Sherlock attempted to get to his feet. John ripped the other curtain open earning another cry from Sherlock who was covering his eyes and most of his face in an attempt to block out the light.

"You need a case. A real case Sherlock, not whatever this," He gestured to the layer of dust and the curtains and other odd amenities littering the room, "is." He finished.

"I am quite frankly a genius John, I am quite capable of taking care of myself." Sherlock had giving up the task of standing up and had settled into the ground with his dressing gown over his head. John rolled his eyes.

"Sure you are." John proceeded over to the fallen detective and grabbed his arm. Sherlock accepted the help eyes squinting into the light before turning away to the kitchen in an effort to escape.

"Close the curtains." Sherlock groaned rubbing his face. John rolled his eyes; that was until Sherlock's hands fell away from his face.

"Jesus." John helped stabilize the detective who looked like he was about to fall over. Sherlock had dark circles around his eyes and bruises along his cheek and chin. His lips were cracked and bruised his eyes dark and bloodshot.

"What the hell were you doing to yourself?" John accused. Sherlock smirked and John wanted to throw him back down and beat him for the smug action, but in the state Sherlock was in it probably would have killed him.

"Ok, you're angry." Those pale blue eyes analyzed John.

"Yes, I'm angry, I'm sure it took all of your deductive skills to deduce that!" John snapped.

"Got into a fight on a case." Sherlock shook his head then made his way to the curtains closing them most of the way only letting a trickle of light in so that they were left in the dim of the room. John stood over Sherlock looking down at the younger man. Strangely enough Sherlock seemed to look younger. Yet perhaps it was hard to tell in the low lighting, or the bruises on his face made him look like a schoolboy who'd gotten into a fight. Whatever the case it was still obvious that Sherlock wasn't taking care of himself.

John headed to the kitchen Sherlock watching him curiously. John returned shortly with a relatively clean glass and some aspirin.

"Here, it'll help the pain and hopefully the swelling." John gave the glass to Sherlock and deposited the little pills in his hands. Sherlock swallowed the pills chasing them down with a sip of water, for once not arguing with John's medical advice. Sherlock tried to hand the cup back to John.

"Drink all of it." John ordered. Sherlock gave John a funny look but held the glass in his lap as he leaned back into the couch. John settled in next to him watching as his former flatmate sipped at the water, wincing every now and then from the pain of his injuries. An awkward silence stretched between the two of them, the noise of the street below and Misses Hudson cleaning downstairs gave John something to focus on other than the blue green bruise that covered half of Sherlock's face.

John recalled that Sherlock was rather surprisingly hard to bruise, his own punches barely left a bruise, and on occasion he'd not been holding back. John's tried to shake the thoughts from his head but they came in succession, _if Sherlock is hard to bruise then what hit him so hard to bruise him so badly?_ The state of his friend gave Watson pause and he could feel a hot anger rising inside him as he thought of who had caused it. Yet he seemed to know what had attacked the detective, though he was at a loath to admit it. However, Sherlock confirmed his fears.

"Sanguarian, it happens from time to time on a case. I don't… always… win." Sherlock said bringing John out of his thoughts.

"Pardon?" John blinked.

"The bruises. It came from a Sanguarian, what you'd call a vampire. I tackled him but he knew how to fight better than I and… was able to do a bit of damage before he escaped. Trust me it looks worse than it actually is." Sherlock informed John sipping on the water some more. John nodded.

"What case?" John asked.

"Same as before, a member of Moriarty's new network." Sherlock set the half empty glass on the table, "Mycroft was tracking him along with several others, it seemed that this one was carrying sensitive information regarding Moriarty. I was trying to apprehend him for interrogation." Sherlock leaned stood suddenly walking across the room and picking up a box of cigarettes plucking one from the package and sticking it between his lips as he hunted for a lighter.

"Why you?" John asked. Sherlock blinked then took the unlit cigarette from his mouth.

"Sorry?' he cocked his head. John's eyebrows furrowed.

"Why you? Why did you go after him? Mycroft has a secret service, and army, no doubt several assassins under his command. Why did he send you, a civilian, and his younger brother? Surely a trained man with a gun is better use against one of those creatures than you." Sherlock stuck the cigarette back into his mouth and lit it with a lighter he'd pulled from under a stack of papers. He took a long drag on it as he contemplated John's question. A long stream of smoke billowed from his lips and Sherlock inhaled looking John in the eyes.

"Because I am the only one capable of it. I'm Mycroft's last line of defense between England and those monsters. Unfortunately the fact that I can't stop them anymore means that this secret war is about to surface in the public and become much more bloody… that or…" Sherlock took another long drag off the cigarette and looked out the window as he exhaled. He spent a while like that before taking a big breath in and perching on his chair.

"Or what?" John asked from the couch. Sherlock simply smoked seeming to ignore John. John got off the couch and moved across the room till he was seated in front of the detective.

"Or what Sherlock?" John asked staring at the detective. Sherlock flicked ashes into the carpet and shook his head.

"I'll have to make a drastic move. One I'm not sure my brother will like." Sherlock sighed. John frowned.

"What kind of move?" John asked. Sherlock put the cigarette out in the ashtray he'd liberated from Buckingham palace and moved closer to John.

"I'm going to have to remove my limiter." Sherlock said cryptically, he then strayed over to his violin and picked it up plucking it a few times.

"You're limiter?" John questioned, all of the cryptic clues and half formed sentences starting to wear thin.

"Never mind that, how are you coping with the idea that there our beings out there which you cannot classify as human?" Sherlock asked tuning the violin slowly not looking at John. John sighed staring at Sherlock before standing up and taking his own vigil at the window.

"I don't know for sure yet." John answered honestly.

"Hmm?" Sherlock's reply came, "You seemed to take it quite badly last time, fell right out of your chair. It was lucky we caught you in time. The nightmares don't seem to be affecting your opinion of them though." John turned to Sherlock.

"No I expect not. From what I've seen they are terrible people… creatures… I can't just be comfortable with them walking about. But, there is still a part of me that aims not to condemn an entire species from the experience of one of their kind." John reasoned. Sherlock nodded.

"Well reasoned, given your answer I'll have you know that there are not many of them left, not true Sanguarians. Most of them died out a long time ago or interbred with humans to the point of no distinctions between the two. There may be small trickle downs of genes, such as a slightly higher healing factor, minimally better hearing or sight. Nothing to obvious and written off as medical miracles, or more often freaks.

"There are few true Sanguarians who dwell within mankind. While not everyone you meet with extraordinary senses has an ancestor who was a Sanguarian either. Sometimes it's just the evolution of mankind, more likely, the genetic differences between the two were too great. Very, very rarely was a half human half Sanguarian born, and typically should they be conceived, they are often not fertile.

"Most of the living Sanguarians prefer mountains, places far from humanity, more in touch with nature. Most are quite different from the monsters you see in the story books, they live lives in tune with the cycle of nature, they live they die, but not as humans do.

"Yet that is not to be said for all of them. Some of them resent humanity, resent the plague that is mankind, or as they view it. They are vindictive, and evil and want nothing but the destruction of the human race. Just as there are evil humans in the world there are evil Sanguarians." Sherlock paused here then looked over to John.

"The most startling fact of these creatures though, is the fact that they cannot change others into their kind, no more than you could a dog into a wolf magically all at once. Perhaps genetics over the years, but it would take hundreds, thousands of years. Yet, the problem I have come up against is that our not so friendly Sanguarians in the streets, Moriarty's men, were human, there was no genetic predisposition toward a Sanguarian origin. They all claimed to have been turned by Moriarty." Sherlock went back to plucking at his violin, "It's unprecedented, shouldn't be possible, I looked up the familial lines going back as far as I possibly could, took samples from blood work from their previous lives, there is nothing in the data that could possibly suggest that they had single drop of blood decedent of a Sanguarian… what do you make of that John?"

John was still trying to take it all in, he'd always heard stories of vampires making more of their kind but it was all so confusing to have something like this in front of him now, something so mythical turn out to be real. Yet he thought about it.

"He's found a way to make artificial Sanguarians?" John tried. Sherlock was silent,

"There is every possibility, yet I can't formulate a response without data." Sherlock sighed. There was silence for a moment.

"Do… do Sanguarians drink blood?" John asked after a moment.

"Yes. They are able to eat regular food though, and unlike the stories, the bloodlust isn't overwhelming unless they are starving, and that often takes near three weeks. They need it far less often than they make it out to be in the stories. It's like humans needing food and water, they can survive without it for a time, but eventually they need to eat. They have high regeneration rates, as you observed the other night, this is also what keeps them looking so young, like they mention in the stories. They are strong, takes quite a bit to hurt them or to even pin one in the first place, they do have excellent vision and hearing and smell. It does take quite a bit to kill them, but while a couple bullet wounds or a stabbing or even a fall off a building wouldn't kill them, it would just incapacitate them for a while. Certain properties harm them more than humans, like the compound I used before. They have an aversion to sunlight, especially when weakened, their bodies can't process the UV light the way humans can, they can stand it but it can make them ill eventually. Not quite the burning that the legends proclaim." Sherlock answered.

"By the way how do you know about all this? How did you accept it? How would you of all people with your perfect knowledge and denial of anything beyond the scope of human range even come to terms with a thing like this?" John blurted out.

Sherlock's gaze lowered and he took a breath looking up a John.

"I was twenty-four… I'll admit I was never much of a model of life, I was done with University, and yet I had no goals, no purpose, I was reckless, bored, tired of the little close-minded humans that called me freak." Sherlock looked up to John, "Understand John, I didn't much care for anything, rebellious and hateful, as many young adults are. I wound up turning to drugs, for they were the only things that offered some quiet from the constant whirring of my mind. Cocaine was a favorite of mine, and whilst between a fit of my own madness of wit and the drowsiness of the drug I was besieged upon." Sherlock stopped plucking the violin.

"I was attacked by a Sanguarian, one of those who hates humanity and all to do with it. I barely survived; in fact I had died at one point during the night.

"Mycroft was barely thirty-three when he discovered what had happened. He'd already gotten a position within the government, ruthless as any politician, he found me dying in the hospital, our parents had yet to be informed. I told him of the thing that had attacked me just before my own death, I was revived of course but it was enough to spook Mycroft, he'd heard whispers of these creatures before, even then he always had an ear out. Gotten pretty far up the ladder as far as I was aware, and yet… he hadn't known the extent of this cover up until that night.

"He was accosted away from my bedside while my heart monitor flat lined by two men from higher up. They had known about my attack, they wanted my body; they wanted to make me disappear. I heard the greed in their voices, I was mere research material." Sherlock's nose twitched in anger.

"I woke up the next morning confused by everything that had happed the day before. Dying, being revived, the government agents, my brother's assumed betrayal…" Sherlock stood agitated and began pacing, "I hadn't known he'd turned them down but at the time it was enough to… I was young, angry… I went out to seek the thing that had attacked me. I wanted revenge, I never found him though. I spent a good year and a half researching around the globe everything I could possibly find out about these creatures to get revenge on what he had done to me." Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, "You can't understand John, the shock of it all, worse than Baskerville, and I was so much younger, so much angrier. It's been a decade since and I can still feel my anger and being thrust into a world suddenly so foreign and unnatural. You've taken it with much more grace than I ever could.

Eventually I found out why he hadn't just finished me off, had only left me for dead by the side of the road to be found later by a young boy who was walking to school early in the morning." Sherlock here paused his eyes flickering over John who was listening intently. Sherlock seemed to growl to himself muttering and avoiding John's gaze.

"Why… why did he not kill you?" John prompted. Sherlock glowered at John and sat heavily in his chair, John held his hands up, "Fine don't tell me."

"The point is John, there are more things between heaven and hell than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Sherlock stated before poising the violin under his chin.

"Shakespeare." John nodded. Sherlock smiled drawing a couple notes out on his beloved instrument.

"The thing that worries me is how Moriarty is able to 'turn' others, to use the vernacular of his men, when it shouldn't be scientifically possible." Sherlock scowled.

"Scientifically possible?" John gave a short barking laugh, "We're talking about vampires here Sherlock. And you're off about scientific vampires."

"Sanguarian John." Sherlock corrected setting the violin to the side, "Most things in the world follow the nature of science, perhaps not yet a science we understand yet, and you must remember basic chemistry seemed to be alchemy and magic long ago. It should be revealed to us soon enough how Moriarty has accomplished this bit of sorcery." Sherlock relaxed in his chair.

"Yeah… right…" John nodded unsure. A moment of silence passed between the two companions Sherlock plucking out a semblance of a song on the violin.

John took a deep breath, Sherlock electing to ignore him as John leaned forward.

"Why didn't the vampire kill you?" John questioned. Sherlock continued plucking at his violin, "Sherlock?" John prompted.

"If you remember John, he eventually did, though it was very brief." Sherlock replied curtly, he pulled out his phone as a text arrived. "Anyway, that is a tale for another time, I'm needed elsewhere." Sherlock replied.

"Can I come?" John asked. Sherlock paused a John's query and shrugged.

"I suppose… I must prepare myself." Sherlock headed to the bedroom. John sighed settling into his chair knowing Sherlock would be a while. John thought back to the bruises on the Detective, the tired way with which he held himself. This case was eating him alive. John paused to consider that particular choice of words and allowed himself the briefest of smiles before remembering that it was actually a possibility.

John stood up and began pacing, what was there that he could do against these creatures? Sherlock had already said that often bullets fail to work against them, so what did? And what did Sherlock have that John didn't to fight against these monsters? Superior intellect could only get him so far; he must have discovered a weapon. Or perhaps he knew their weaknesses. Even if that was the case Sherlock has said that he was the last line of defense, but surely stronger soldiers with the knowledge that Sherlock had come to possess could handle the threat as easily as the thin detective, probably better than the detective in his current state.

John's hands clenched and unclenched as he worked himself up. There were gapping holes in Sherlock's explanations, like a factor was missing, or purposefully omitted. Though given the nature of the detective this was probably true.

John glanced around the flat to see if anything was upset. Nothing seemed out of order, not much ever changed around the flat anyway. John went to the kitchen and settled on making himself a cup of tea while he waited. After a moments hesitation he made one for Sherlock too. He then sat at the table and pondered this new world.

Sherlock ghosted into the kitchen and John gestured toward the tea he'd made. Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment and picked up the mug staring at the tea before setting the mug down.

John gave him a strange look but Sherlock just shook his head and went about gathering his deductive devices. John sighed watching the detective work before Sherlock returned to the kitchen and sat next to John pulling the mug of tea towards him.

"This is not a life I ever wanted for you John." Sherlock said swirling the liquid around in his mug.

"Yeah well, when I was talking to my counselor Vampire Hunter never really came up as a possible career choice." John smirked. Sherlock ghosted a smile toward him then shook his head.

"I've done my best to keep this part of my life from you. It's been a long time since I've even had a case like this, they are so few and far between." Sherlock sighed.

"But chasing after normal murderers is fine?" John questioned. Sherlock gave him a look.

"Sanguarians have more power than you would believe, it is because they chose not to be a threat that humanity didn't go extinct. Some of them have private communities on remote islands where they do not interfere with or have the interference of humans. Occasionally they will police the actions of rogue Sanguarians, which only happens if they catch wind of them, or if the rogue is to tamper with the natural course of human actions. They only help the humans because humans cannot help themselves, noblesse oblige." Sherlock stated.

"That… is incredibly arrogant." John frowned. Sherlock laughed.

"I do suppose it is, but when one is better than others one does tend to get arrogant." Sherlock stood abandoning his cup and making for the door.

"Especially if that one is named Sherlock." John mumbled to himself as he too abandoned his mug.

"Hurry John." Sherlock called from down the stairs, "The game is on."


End file.
